


See, the life I have can make a good man turn bad.

by Heyashes



Series: The Brave Ones Verse [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hooker!Thomas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newt is adorable, Newt is such a Brit, Prostitution, Vague mentions of non con sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyashes/pseuds/Heyashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt has been crushing hard on the guy with the bruises in his French class who always looks like he's about to pass out on his desk.<br/>The guy with the bruises who always looks like he's about to pass out on his desk needs someone to tell him he's beautiful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It all happened one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See, the life I have can make a good man turn bad.

Newt groaned as he got into his car. It was the same every Friday: he planned his night in with a movie or a book and plenty of tea and Minho had to crush it.

"Let's go clubbing, he said," He muttered under his breath as he started the engine. "It'll be fun, he said..."

Newt was the exact opposite of a party animal to say the least. He just couldn't see the point  when it came to getting wasted and dancing like idiots in an overcrowed room to tuneless beats.

But Minho was his best mate, and you just don't way no to best mates. But the fact that Newt had agreed to go clubbing did't mean he would stick around when Minho would find some fit bird to snog.

Newt had lost count of the times  _everyone_ had told him to let go a bit, to just  _chill_ now and then instead of spending his early twenties locked inside his flat reading the most boring books he could get his hands on -something Newt completely disagreed on because James Joyce  _could_ be fun and interesting.

Fuck them all. It was barely 3 am and Newt was planning on making up for the time he'd lost in that club as he drove home.

 

Until his night took a very unexpected twist.

 

He was driving down a tree-lined aveue, the road brightly illuminated by the street lamps. It was one of the principal boulevards of the town during the day, but at night it would just be the stage for the most degrading show in Newt's opinion: leaning against the iron pole of the lampposts, against the brick walls of the buildings or sitting on the curb, you could see a vast variety of human beings. Women, girls, even boys. Most of them had pale faces, purple shadows under their eyes to match the too much revealing clothes.

Newt hated it.  
And he hated even more to see cars stopping to pick some one up, especially the ones you could tell were really young girls. 

Then he found himself slowing down: Againt the wall on the right side of the street, clad in impossibly tight black jeans and a black tank top with its armholes stretched to the point Newt could make out the shape of a nipple, slightly darker agaist the milky skin, shoulders leaning against the bricks and hips slightly more forward than the rest of the body, was standing someone that Newt knew well.

Well he didn't exactly knew him, more like spent every French class staring at the back of his head, but that was way beside the point.

 

Newt found himself stopping in front of him before he could really realize it. It must've been the shock: the bloke he had a crush on had just turned out to be a hooker in his spare time. He watched him make his way to the car, almost taking his time as Newt rolled down the window. He watched as he leaned in and rested his bare elbows on the edge of the window, licking his lips.

"Need a hand, big boy?" 

Newt bit his bottom lip hard: his voice sounded raspy and low, something that he knew was just an acting well practiced in front of a mirror. The boy's lips were almost blue, and Newt noticed the goosebumps on his arms and neck only then: he was probably freezing, dressed like that during a winter night.

He immediately made his decision, leaning to the side to open the passenger door.

"Get in," was all he said, already startig the car again.

The only good thing was that it seemed like the other guy hadn't recognised him. Hell, Newt doubted that he ever noticed him at all, but now he was somewhat thankful that he hadn't.  
They were both silent for five good minutes, then the other spoke when they were almost at Newt's flat.

"I'm Thomas, by the way."  
Newt almost barked out a laugh: he knew who he was. Of course he did. "Newt," He replied, not taking his eyes off the road.

They kept quiet on the way up the stairs to Newt's flat, too, until the blonde closed the door behind him, pretending to not see how the other was fiddling with his hands.

"So that would be... 50 for a blowjob, 120 for the... whole package. I do both top and bottom so you just tell me what you're most comfortab-"  
"Would you like some tea?"

Thomas looked startled for a couple of seconds: he probably wasn't used to be offered any kind of thing while  _working_. Newt wondered if he was aware that he definitely wasn't going to work that night. He snapped his fingers in front of the other's face, shrugging his jacket off and unzipping his hoodie: it was way warmer inside than it was outside, and Thomas' lips were starting to regain a more natural color. "I said, would you like some tea?" He repeated, then added a small smile at the end of the sentence for good measure.

Thomas still looked defiant.

"I'll pay you for the time you spend here, don't worry."

Thomas let out a breath Newt knew he didn't know he was holding, then nodded. "Well in that case..."  
But Newt had already disappeared in the kitchen, if the clang of mugs and kitchen utensils was anything to go by. Thomas followed, looking around, and sat on one of the stools without waiting for Newt's suggestion and trying to contain the hiss of pain when his ass came in contact with the hard surface: he'd looked like an idiot enough for the night. He bit the nail of his thumb, staring at the blonde's back: he looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he'd seen him before. He wondered if this was just small talk, before he'd have to drop to his knees for a ridiculously small amount of money.

He really hoped it wasn't.

 

Newt handed Thomas a cup of tea and sat on the stool on the other side of the table, facing him. He stared at the red mark on Thomas' neck, a bruise scaringly shaped like a pair of hands, and then into his eyes when the other boy casually slid a hand to cover his neck.

"Rough night?" He dared to ask, holding the mug between his hands to warm them up.  
"You could say that," Thomas replied with a tired nod, not caring to hide the heavy sigh coming from his lips.  
Newt suddenly understood where all the bruises that were always covering Thomas' body came from: not from some rough sport, like Minho had once suggested, not from being distracted and accidentally banging againt every possible surface. They came from people's hands. From people that used him like their personal toy boy, that hurt him and then dropped him back on his sidewalk not caring if he froze to death or something happened to him afterwards.  
And Newt found it horrible. It disgusted him so much, that someone could do something like that to someone as beautiful as Thomas, and that someone as beautiful as him would ever have to work the streeet for a living, that it made him want to throw up.  
He watched how Thomas held the cup in his hands like he hadn't touched something warm for ages, how he kept nibbling on his bottom lip and flinch like he was afraid Newt could hurt him any second, how his eyes were jaded and how disenchanted he looked and felt his heart sink.

Christ, what had life done to that boy?

"Why do you do that?" He asked, his voice coming out smaller than he intended it to.

Thomas raised his glance from the steaming liquid in the mug and looked at Newt. "What, working as a whore?"  
Newt flinched. "Don't call yourself that."  
The other boy let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. "Oh, Newt. But that's exactly what I am."  
Newt shook his head himself: all he saw was a broken boy, not a hooker. "Just tell me why you do it. Without defining what you think you are."

Thomas thought about it, toying with the spoon in his mug, then took a sip and licked his chapped lips. "A boy's got to eat, right?" He said, then took his time again to think about his next line. Newt spent the whole time mapping the freckles on Thomas' pale skin, studying the bow of his upper lip and the whiskey color of his eyes. "I'm not on... speaking terms with my parents. They kicked me out when I turned eighteen. I had access to my bank account, but money ran out pretty quickly after I enrolled to college. I share a flat with a friend of mine, Brenda. Her mother died of cancer last year and his father shot himself after that. They used to help us a bit before they died. She works as a waitress when he doesn't have class," He explained, and Newt nodded: he knew who that Brenda girl was, but Thomas only thought he did that because he was listening. "I tried many jobs before, but none of them could provide the money we needed quickly enough, so," He shrugged and took another sip of his drink. "Nothing pays more and as quickly as letting gross people fuck you in the ass until and even when you can't take it anymore."

Newt felt a shiver run down his spine at how harsh Thomas sounded as he spoke: he didn't even sound bold like the hooker he'd picked up half an hour earlier, he didn't sound tired like the boy who had covered his neck in shame. He sounded like he despised himself and what he did with every inch of his being. "How long have you been out there before I... you know. Picked you up?"  
Thomas' reply came fast and tuneless. "Since eight. Done three men and a married couple." Then a small sigh and a bitter smile as he moved his top to the side to show a bright red line on his abdomen, as if he'd been whipped or something. "You'd be surprised at how twisted people can be."

 

"I'm in your French class."

Newt just couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take Thomas talking about himself like he was some sort of rag doll, he couldn't take the thought of how sick the world was. The words left his mouth even before he could stop them, and Thomas froze.

"What?" Fingers twitching on the smooth surface of the counter as Thomas' eyes widened.  
Newt leaned in, grabbing Thomas' top and pulling him forward to press his lips agaist the other boy's in a kiss that desperately needed to let him know that he was worth it.

 

_"I'm in your French class, and I think you're beautiful."_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really supposed to be studying for a really important exam but this came up while I was driving home last night and it won't leave me alone so I hope it's worth it.  
> I also was thinking about writing some sort of spin off regarding what might happen after this episode: care to let me know if I should? And if I should, should it me in an immediate future or some time later? Feedback appreciated xx
> 
>  
> 
> (ps. Lots of brit terms included because it's not my fault if Thomas Brodie-Sangster is a British little shit and I can only picture Newt as a complete LAD since the movie.)


End file.
